


The Gathering Light

by ElectraRhodes



Category: Foyle's War, Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943, 1944, 1945, AU, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Case References, Hannibal and Will turn up later, I know what I’m doing it’s just a lot of doing, M/M, Murder Mystery, Refugees, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, URT, UST, Wartime England, dear god in heaven what am I doing, racketeering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-20 16:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11925165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes
Summary: England. 1940. The war is evolving, half of Europe seems to be on the move and some things closer to home remind us that conflict isn’t only mortar and tanks. There are human costs too.Petty grievances, personal regrets, and political gain-saying can all escalate. And War, like murder, is no respecter of persons.As Superintendent Christopher Foyle navigates the altering social landscape of the South Coast other factors will bring changes, some half hoped for and some terrible and far too close to home.And for those who converge on Hastings? What awaits them? Hannibal Lecter and his wife Bedelia Du Maurier, refugees from Eastern Europe; Lieutenant Will Graham of the USAF reluctantly stationed on a land-grab airfield; and a whole slew of characters caught up in murder, racketeering, espionage, and certain kinds of treachery. Both nations and hearts betrayed.This is a Foylner and Hannigram WW2 murder mystery, with characters from both worlds all knitted together in a darkling romance.





	1. Autumn 1940

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kivrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kivrin/gifts), [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts), [Zigzagwanderer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445834) by [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl). 



> Follows a great prompt from Kivrin, my inadvertent and unwitting 500th follower on Tumblr who's in the Foyle's War fandom and whose work there has now triggered a story that's clearly going to get terribly out of hand! 
> 
> For Foyle's War fandom readers this series is located reasonably firmly within Crowgirl's 'Welcoming Silences' AU (it certainly takes inspiration from it). Link above. It's an awfully good read in its own right and this fic fills the time line out further.
> 
>  
> 
> For Hannibal fandom readers, who may be a bit bemused about this posting, the first part of the story lays the foundations for the Hannibal/Foyle's War crossover. If you're in the US Foyle's War is currently on Netflix. I heartily recommend both the series and Crowgirl's AU to you!
> 
> See the end of the story for further notes and explanation... it helps to have seen at least one episode of Foyle's War. And You Tube can help with that! Either that or throw yourself in, you'll pick it up for sure.

Christopher Foyle holds the teapot carefully between both hands, letting the boiling water warm him through the pottery. He swirls the water round slowly, keeping the lid on the pot with just the tip of his thumb, cradling the whole like a human head, gently, in his hands. It's not an inappropriate image given his thoughts, that circulate along with the water.

He presses his lips together, chews slightly at one edge of his mouth and empties the pot out into the sink. The plug is in of course so that none of the hot water will be wasted, his breakfast plate and knife sit waiting ready to be rinsed and left to drain.

Next door, his Sargeant, Paul Milner is probably sitting in the less comfortable of the two armchairs next to the fireplace. No matter the hints or even outright suggestions Christopher makes Paul always takes the worse chair.

…………………..

In the living room Paul lowers himself into what looks like the slightly older of the armchairs. He knows it's less comfortable but with the fireplace to his right if he sits here he gains the benefit of the fire when it's lit. Otherwise he'd just be warming his aluminium prosthetic and that seems, even to him, to be an even greater exercise in futility than almost every single thing he's encountered this year.

He hasn't quite got it in him to explain his dilemma even though Foyle regularly urges the more comfortable armchair on him. Probably it hasn't occurred to his boss. Though as the fire has only been used once this autumn Foyle’s thoughts may not have quite turned in that direction. Yet. Paul considers that Foyle will have worked it out within a month of the fire being lit more frequently and will adjust the armchairs accordingly. It's not exactly a test, more a way of reminding himself that Foyle is, well, just is, as he is. Someone who notices. Especially about Paul. He hopes.

With the pressure off his leg he relaxes by increments into the chair’s depths. Really it's quite comfortable, although it may just be the relief of no longer standing. He closes his eyes. The complexities of the day washing over him. He huffs slightly, if it were just the day? It's the week, the weeks, several months really, weaving in with the emerging strained story of the girl's death and the tangled threads that hold it in place. Suspended.

He hears Foyle nudge open the door, a tray occupying both hands as he manages with a well placed foot and knee. Paul feels a short pang of envy, how long will it be before he can manage such a manoeuvre? If ever? Not that Foyle will have intended to draw his attention to it. That's all his own anxiety. And in this situation? So much is, he knows. He swallows down the various things troubling him,

“And Andrew is alright?”

Christopher pauses, the tea tin in one hand the other poised to pry the lid off. It’s an old tin but his fondness for his grandmother long dead and buried in the Kent marshes keeps it in regular use even though it's always been a little stiff.

“Apart from his friend? Yes. So he said.”

“Did he want to come round?”

“Here? No. He just wanted to tell me.”

“Did he ask about, well, the other?”

Christopher’s son Andrew has been on the outskirts of their most recent case. His close friend Rex, another airman now ditched and drowned in the Channel caught up in a messy case where his innocence of one crime would have led to his exposure in another way. 

Christopher levers off the lid. Normally he'd do this part in the kitchen but this evening he's brought along the tin and kettle as well as the teapot, mugs and milk jug. All jostling on a tray. He frowns. He'd followed some impetus not to leave Paul alone for too long ruminating on this. He tips three tea spoons of tea into the pot and adds the near boiling water to it.

“No. I think Andrew's drawn all the conclusions he's minded to draw at this point.”

Paul says nothing. Neither of them had told Andrew that it was he whom Rex had loved. After all, what would be the point? Doubly so now he's dead. Christopher sighs,

“Rex asked me if I was disgusted by him, I told him I wasn't, of course, but..”

Paul waits a moment, waiting to see what Christopher will follow this with,

“He said ‘he wished he could believe that was true’.”

Paul waits a moment and when he speaks his voice is at the lower end of his register, it never fails to light something deep and long banked in Christopher's gut, though this moment, like so many others, like most, is not the right one to pursue that particular impetus. Christopher wonders if it ever will be.

“And you didn't say anything more?”

“All I did was offer him the most modest piece of re-assurance which, frankly, I don't think he felt for one moment.”

“You can't know that.”

Christopher eyes him somewhat balefully,

“I think I can.”

He hands Paul the mug of tea, unsugared and with only a splash of milk, Paul smiles a small wordless thanks and holds the mug between his hands. A visual echo of the gesture Christopher had made with the pot earlier. Christopher makes a conscious effort not to watch them or Paul's face. 

Paul drinks a slow sip. The tea is strong and hot and much to his liking. He marvels that his boss not only remembers his preferences in tea and alcohol and other things besides after just a few months whereas his wife, ex-wife? Not quite a wife any more? Still adds half a sugar come what may. He thinks of all the reassurances and conclusions he is slowly drawing together. He's still preoccupied by the possibility that his own bias and hope is influencing his tentative convincements. 

He looks up and watches Christopher, Foyle, Sir, all three things bound up together now, focussing on his own mug. Also held carefully. Cradled. Paul has his own problems with Christopher's hands. Clever, warm, smooth and very competent. He thinks of something else that has been bothering him today,

“Sam said he shot at you? This morning?”

Foyle pauses, it's a sharp diversion back into their professional life and relationship,

“That's true. He did. Didn't do him much good though. Did it?”

He thinks of the immediate aftermath, the driver crashing, the terrible conflagration, gallons of petrol wasted. The man who'd shot at him and Sam, burned to death in the cab of the lorry. There are several minutes of quiet whilst Foyle watches his Sargeant try to work up a follow on comment. It doesn't escape his notice that Paul worries at the loose button on his jacket in lieu of articulating what Foyle hopes is a particular kind of worry for him, about him. But, better not to push it. 

Paul will come to his own conclusions, in his own time, whatever they might be. And he'll have thought them through thoroughly. Foyle isn't sure if he could telegraph his own intentions any more clearly without actually saying something rather too specific.

“I should be making you the tea.”

Foyle looks at him in surprise, Paul, with just the faintest crease of frown between his brows, not quite making eye contact. The corner of Foyle’s eyes crease in amusement.

“Is this your way of angling for a second cup?”

A small smile twitches the corner of Paul's mouth and he hands over his mug. Foyle is rather pleased with himself when he doesn't jump at the slight contact between them when his thumb brushes Paul's as he grasps the handle. He thinks Paul does. Though that may be wishful thinking on his part. He watches his Sargeant, his.. friend, his.. something, more closely, waiting, as ever, for further clues.

“Alright?”

Paul doesn't look at him,

“It was just a little close to home, that's all.”

The clock on the mantelpiece wheezes out a quarter hour.

“Well. Fortunately, not too close.”

Paul drinks from his mug again and then traces his finger lightly round the pottery rim. He glances quickly up at Christopher and then back down again at the mug.

“Close enough.”


	2. Martinmas 1940

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milner goes back into the office, sits at his desk and furiously rearranges the papers on it. Damn. This, and there isn't even a ‘this’. But this ‘this’ that isn't a ‘this’ is getting out of hand. He shoves some papers into a drawer just for the pleasure of slamming it shut.

Seated at his desk in Foyle’s office Milner closes the file he's been reading and sets it down. He lines it up against the edge, then shifts it a little. Makes to flip it open again but then closes it and pushes it away from him across the desk more decisively. Foyle waits. Either Paul has something to say or he doesn't. Apparently he does,

“What did you do?”

Paul gestures towards Foyle’s hand, currently sporting a small bandage.

“This? Nothing to speak of. It's just to keep it clean.”

Milner frowns a little and presses his lips together into a flat line. Foyle doesn't smile and looks back down at his own paperwork spread across his desk, nevertheless he adds,

“Fishing. At the weekend. Just a bad cast.”

Milner frowns a little more, flyfishing? In October? Really?

………………….

Milner watches as Foyle leaves the station with Captain Devlin and is caught by the hot surge of jealousy that pulses through him. He clenches one hand round the door jamb. When he sees his own knuckles have whitened he makes a conscious effort to let go. Devlin might have been Foyle’s Sargeant before the war but he relies on Milner now. 

Milner goes back into the office, sits at his desk and furiously rearranges the papers on it. Damn. This, and there isn't even a ‘this’. But this ‘this’ that isn't a ‘this’ is getting out of hand. He shoves some papers into a drawer just for the pleasure of slamming it shut. It sticks. Damn and blast. It's already out of hand.

………………..

He feels a little better later in the day when Foyle agrees that he should check up on Devlin’s story. But not much better. Though Foyle’s accompanying smile is credit in the bank. Damn it some more. Albeit from pretty limited experience, Paul recognises the habit in himself. Adding up each little thing? Each hoped for, longed for, terrified of, anticipation of affection, of its reciprocation, or of its rejection. He remembers with Jane, adding things up, trying to cudgel them into something that is more than the sum of its parts. God. He thinks of the small smile, swallows dryly, and counts.

…………………

A week later and Paul thinks he is quietly driving himself a little mad. He hangs his coat on the stand and catches himself about to stroke down the arm of Foyle’s coat, just to straighten it, so it hangs right, he tells himself. He swears under his breath. Shakes his head a little. The door opens and Foyle comes back in with two mugs of tea from the morning brew up the desk Sargeant always remembers. 

“Good. You are here. Tea?”

Foyle doesn't wait for a reply but puts the mug on the coaster beside the blotter on Paul’s desk. He's always liked the fact that Paul doesn't doodle on the pad. If he does doodle at all it must be in his own notebook as he's scrupulous about the paperwork. And a far better typist than Foyle is. He has the knack of the dropped lower case ‘e’ on the heavy manual typewriter that inhabits the corner table, lurking like a malevolent crow shiny black and gleaming gold. Ready to trap and bite all but the most wary of fingers. Paul though seems to have it tamed.

“Sir, About Mr. Beck?”

“Sargeant?”

Paul chews at the inside corner of his lip. Foyle quirks a twitch of his lip in sympathy, he wonders if Paul is aware that he's doing that more now. Foyle would like to think it is in unconscious imitation. It's a happy thought.

“About going away. Well… I'm sorry.”

“Oh. What the vicar said? Yes. I am too.”

He thinks of Hilda Pierce’s comments about the failure of the stolen letter and of Steven Beck’s clandestine and probably fatal return to Germany. He can only hope that there are other more successful outcomes somewhere down the line for some part of this almost certainly doomed venture.

“You've lost your fishing partner.”

Foyle is surprised into a laugh,

“Is that an offer?”

Paul's flushes just a little, the blush of colour sharp across his cheekbones and his normal even paleness, he ducks his head,

“I'd be entirely useless. But…”

There's a long silence, punctuated only by the steady breathing of both of them, suddenly noisy in the quiet of the room. 

“But?” Foyle prompts, Paul sighs, shrugs a shoulder,

“I'm sorry you’ve lost a friend.”

Foyle bites his own lip, thinking of a myriad of possible responses. Some of which could take them either nearer or closer to his own many hoped for outcomes.

“Well. That's generous of you. I shall miss him. And not, I should add, Captain Devlin, if you'd been wondering.”

“Captain Devlin, Sir? He's gone back to his unit?”

“He has. Safe and sound.”

Paul hides a small smile which he nevertheless telegraphs through every pore and smoothed out frown-line,

“Let me buy you a pint. I'm sure it's my turn.”

Foyle smiles, just a warm crinkle at the corner of his eyes, but a smile all the same,

“Thank you. I think it is.”

…………………….


	3. Against the Night November 1940

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels a little disloyal to Sam that so much of his indignation at her sacking is also his own impotent anger at the accusation of sedition that's been levelled at Foyle.
> 
> “You've some kind of plan. Sir? Don't you?”
> 
> Foyle fiddles with the kettle and the burner, and deliberately turns away as he says,
> 
> “Well, I imagine I wouldn't be the man you think I am, if I didn't now, would I?”

Paul Milner stands opposite the house, briefly he admires the graceful proportions of the double bay front. It's an attractive building, though he may not have taken the time to consider it were it not for its occupant. His pulse jumps in his throat when he glances up the road and sees the uniformed police constable maintaining a loose patrol near Christopher Foyle’s home. God, Inspector Collier is a bastard. He takes a deep breath, crosses the road and reaches up to knock on the door. The letterbox flaps noisily and after a short silence he hears footsteps inside coming along the hallway.

Mentally Paul endeavours to compose himself a little more. He pulls himself up the steps that are slightly deeper than is easy for him without his cane, despite the as yet unrequisitioned railings. He sighs when Christopher opens the door, all his mental fortifying no defence in the face of the small smile and pleased expression,

“Paul! You shouldn't be here. Are you coming in? I should probably warn you, you shouldn't.”

“That's just rubbish. The whole thing is. Of course I'm coming in. If that's alright with you?”

Foyle almost snorts a laugh and stands back from the door to admit his Sargeant. Paul brushes quite close to him in the narrow hall and it's all Foyle can do not to reach out and touch him more purposefully.

Paul pauses,

“I seem to ask you this too often. Is Andrew alright?”

Foyle pushes the door into the kitchen open and Paul follows close behind, he sits at the table and watches as Foyle leans against the sink.

“Yes. He ditched in the Channel. It's getting to be a habit. Trouble with the slide he said. Bruised but not broken. He's somewhat embarrassed if anything. Blames himself of course.”

Paul makes a face,

“And the other thing? Collier? Some bee in his bonnet. The whole station’s up in arms.”

Foyle says nothing and the frown between his brows deepens,

“You might encourage them all to say, and do, nothing…”

It's his turn to pause, considering the next few words,

“Nothing untowards at least.”

Paul frowns back at him,

“He's sent Sam back to the MTC!”

“Has he now? I don't imagine that's very popular at the station either?”

Paul doesn't reply, it feels a little disloyal to Sam that so much of his indignation at her sacking is also his own impotent anger at the accusation of sedition that's been levelled at Foyle.

“You've some kind of plan. Sir? Don't you?”

Foyle fiddles with the kettle and the burner, and deliberately turns away as he says,

“Well, I imagine I wouldn't be the man you think I am, if I didn't now, would I?”

Paul has to work hard not to swallow too hard at that. Foyle is at least, well, God, that's the increasingly difficult thing to deal with. Maybe he should put in for a transfer? He mustn't go on like this. It's beginning to be desperate. He's beginning to be desperate. And he's bound to do something embarrassing either here or at the station.

Saying something would be bad enough, but what if he does something? It's touching he's most worried about. He's already stopped counting how many times it adds up to. And those two times they've been snowed in? And the terrible agony of not touching? When it's all you want to do, when you're desperate to? He clasps his hands tightly on the table in front of him, as though they might as yet do something untoward without his strict monitoring of their behaviour, the knuckles whitening slightly from the tightness of the grip.

“Paul?”

He stirs a little,

“Sorry. What?”

“I offered tea? Or something stronger, if you'd prefer? There's a little whiskey left.”

Paul flushes slightly at the memory of having got sufficiently drunk that Foyle had insisted he stay one night a week or so back. He'd stared at the model aeroplanes of Andrew’s childhood room the following morning and found his clamouring ardour undiminished by the reminders of Christopher's son. It had involved some dousing with cold water and thoughts of their most difficult recent cases for him to be able to come downstairs to breakfast with some semblance of a presentable face. He's not sure what the question was, he looks at Foyle who raises his eyebrows, oh yes,

“It's a little early for me. Maybe tea, thank you. Sir.”

If he keeps adding ‘Sir’ at the end, maybe it will help? He'd called Foyle ‘Christopher’ last time. At his invitation, but all the same. Though Foyle seems to have started calling him Paul whenever they're actually out of the Station, even in front of Sam once or twice. Which is sufficiently distracting that… he pauses. Maybe he should go? Collier is bound to have heard of his defection. Though. A thought catches at him.

Foyle continues with the tea making, watching Paul out of the corner of his eye. He stops when he realises he's forgotten to warm the pot first. He huffs to himself, too distracted, it's happening a lot around Paul now. He glances back to find Paul looking steadily at him as though some complex piece of algebra finally makes sense to him,

“How is it that we don't eat at my house?”

Foyle finishes making the tea and brings the pot to the table. Whilst he's thought of this he's been careful not to let it concretise too firmly in his mind, concerned really that if it does coalesce Paul will read it in their interactions. But really? It's about ensuring Paul always has some kind of an escape route. Should he need it. Foyle is reasonably sure he has, at least once. But only once. Still. He nudges a mug across the table.

“I'm not sure it's come up as a possibility. Fancy a change of scene?”

Paul doesn't reply but frowns instead into his tea. It's not that he doesn't like Foyle's house. He does. Very much. It's just that… in his own mind he trails off. It's just that Foyle is always doing things for him, looking after him if he's honest with himself.

“I'm not a dreadful cook.”

Foyle actually laughs out loud, surprising them both.

“It has to be said that isn't the most convincing sales patter I've ever heard. Try again don't you think?”

Paul's smiles a small smile into the rim of the cup, lets the heat warm his lower lip, the thin sensitive skin there, he slides it along his mouth, and though he tries Foyle finds it hard to look away.

“Christopher, even though associating with you may lead into all kinds of trouble…”

He pauses and smiles again, partly at his own boldness, 

“.. if Inspector Collier is to be believed, but, perhaps you'd come and eat with me. Maybe tomorrow?”

Foyle raises an eyebrow again, and Paul flashes a glance at him, all dark eyes and shine,

“I'll have to find the tin opener first.”


	4. Stir Up Sunday November 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And welcome to Anthony Dimmond local landowner, and Devon Silvestri dealer in stolen goods and racketeer!

Sam blows out her cheeks and cricks her neck. The excitement of the morning's chase is forgotten now and she leans against the driver's door of the car fiddling with her gloves. She debates whether it's worth going inside the gates to see what's become of Mr Foyle and Mr Milner. And the two car loads of uniformed police, where are they? It must be at least 20 minutes, and though Mr Foyle had severely instructed her to ‘stay here', he can't surely have meant for this long. Can he?

She scuffles her toe in the gravel and loose dirt. And then leans down and uses her finger to wipe her shoe. Drat. She is saved from outright disobedience when she sees them returning, Mr Foyle’s hands deep in his coat pockets, Mr Milner looking resigned to whatever mood Mr Foyle is in.

“Hello sir. I was just beginning to wonder what had happened to you?"

"Sam? Oh well. Nothing to speak of. Sergeant Miller trying to get his head taken off but apart from that…”

He tails off and hauls the car door open and then sits down on the edge of the seat. He looks like he might say something but instead he swings his legs round into the car and stares resolutely ahead. Sam raises her eyebrows at Sergeant Milner who shakes his head just a fraction as he closes Foyle’s door and get into the back of the car.

She steps round to the driver's side and slides in. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Mr Foyle frown and chew a little on his bottom lip. She looks in the rear view mirror and sees Sargeant Milner looking down into his lap. It looks to her as though they'd been having some kind of argument before they arrived back at the car.

“You know Warner’s a fool. What on earth possessed you to believe he'd checked?”

Sam sees Sargeant Milner frown a little, but he doesn't leap to his own defence. Her boss raises a hand and then drops it to his knee again.

“He could easily have shot you. And then where would we be?”

“Did he have a gun Sir?”

Foyle glances irritably at Sam and looks like he's about to comment to the effect that that's a particularly asinine thing to say in the circumstances. Instead she's grateful when Mr Milner interjects,

“I should have checked Sir. I'm sorry. It was a mistake.”

“It's just lucky the damn thing jammed.”

Really Sargeant Milner can only agree with this, so, very wisely, Sam thinks, he says nothing further. It's true Mr Foyle doesn't like sloppiness but he's crosser than normal for something so clearly a mistake. She ventures,

“Back to the station Sir?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Thank you Sam.”

There's a moderately uncomfortable silence all the way back to the station. Mr Milner looks out of the side window, Mr Foyle frowns. On their arrival Mr Foyle speaks with the desk Sargeant about the incoming evidence from the warehouse and then Sam and Sargeant Milner follow him into his office.

“Right. When the evidence comes in I want it booked in by the box, and the contents checked and catalogued. I don't want any of it going missing. Check the expiration dates too on any food.”

She sees Sargeant Milner’s shoulder slump a little. It hadn't been a huge warehouse but there could easily be a few hundred boxes to get through. And what with it being a Sunday he might have to tackle it alone! It could easily take him all night. Really, it's like Mr Foyle is punishing him, she thinks disloyally.

When the first van arrives the desk Sargeant gives Mr Milner the heads up and he follows without a word. Sam watches as Mr Foyle frowns harder at his own paperwork and makes no comment. She's definitely missing something. Still, it's not the first time they've had an argument to which she's not privy. That business with the Spence chap?

An hour later she goes to check on tea and Mr Milner. He's logged 15 of the 175 boxes. He smiles at her a little tiredly.

“Someone has to do it Sam. And on a Sunday? Better me than…” he trails off and then adds,

“You should get off. See if Mr Foyle needs you any longer. Drop a few hints. And thanks for the tea.”

He smiles at her again, and goes back to the next box, all books by the look of it. Idly she picks one up off the desk where he's unpacked it. She glances at the title and blushes. Oh. Gosh.

“Sam?”

She must have made some noise,

“Oh. Err. Nothing. Just. Quite racey. You know?”

He takes the title back from her and looks at the title and author,

“I'm not familiar?”

“No? My Uncle Aubrey has a few by him. Classics he says. Greek love and all. I think they're actually proscribed now. He wouldn't let me read them! He even went so far as to hide them!”

She laughs and pulls a face and then moves one or two books around on the desk. Reading the titles with an air of both embarrassment and curiosity. She picks one up again.

“It's quite a collection! Oh. This one has a name plate inside Sir. See? What does it say?”

Sargeant Milner takes it from her and looks at it closely,

“Well, I'll be… you remember that odd thing we had with the man who came in to un-report a burglary?”

“Oh. Yes. His wife reported it, or his sister. Someone. But he said nothing had been stolen, so could he unreport it?”

“That's it. I think these must be his. I wonder if this is what was stolen. If so it'll mean we've got Silvestri for either burglary or handling stolen goods as well as the black-market stuff. Good work Sam. Did I say thanks for the tea?”

She grins at him and leaves him to it. At least he looks more cheerful now.

Sargeant Milner empties the rest of the carton. There are thirty books in all, and all with name plates. He flicks through one of the ones Sam had pointed out. What had she called them? ‘Greek love’? Oh. He stops and reads a page. Then flicks forward and reads another few paragraphs. And swallows hard. Suddenly he feels too hot and tight and self-aware. He bites at his bottom lip. Really no-one would know if he borrowed one or two. Overnight. Or, for a few days. Cautiously he slips two into his inside pocket.

……………………

Foyle looks at Sir Anthony Dimmond,

“So, we don't actually want to prosecute you, although you'll understand why, at this time, we can't return the books to you. But we've got Silvestri for theft and handling stolen goods and racketeering. And I'd be grateful to know if we can add blackmail to the list?”

Sir Anthony demurs,

“It wasn't blackmail as such. He just said he'd come across some property of mine and would I pay to get it back.”

“And you said?”

Sir Anthony shrugs a shoulder, and wraps the scarf he's wearing more tightly round his neck, Foyle's office isn't cold, but it isn't exactly warm either,

“Only that a finder’s fee seemed fair enough.”

They all pause. It's a sticky wicket. In the end Foyle capitulates,

“As and when we can, they'll be returned. At the moment they're locked in a box in our evidence room. Good enough?”

“It'll have to be. Shame though. Good for the long winter evenings.”

He grins. Foyle doesn't return the smile but he understands what his lordship is getting at. The current decency laws regard them as pornography of one kind or another for the most part. He hasn't asked Paul for the complete list but he's got the general gist of it. Even Warner who effects an air of ‘seen-it-all’ had been mildly scandalised and Paul has been singularly quiet on the matter. Still they've got Silvestri, and given the current state of affairs he'll do hard time.

After Sir Anthony has gone Sam asks,

“Were they really all his books? Is that why he un-reported the crime?”

“In theory he could be prosecuted. But at the moment? We've got bigger fish to fry.”

She makes a face,

“How long did all the boxes take to catalogue Mr Milner?”

Paul pulls himself back from where ever he's been abstracted to, Foyle frowns, he's been quiet the last few days, ever since he wasn't shot and Foyle gave him the punishment duty of collating all the evidence.

“It wasn't that bad Sam. Just time consuming. Lots of time to think. And there was plenty of tea.” He pauses. “Thanks.”

She smiles at him and tries not to frown at Mr Foyle. Really it was a bit unfair of him, even if Mr Milner is nice about it now. She looks again at Mr Milner, he really is looking very thoughtful. She sees him close his eyes, a small smile on his face. What's that about, she wonders.


	5. It rains - late November 1940

Sargeant Milner looks out of the office window. From where he stands he can see out and down into the street. He can see Constable Warner standing just below the stone steps which lead up into the station. His cousin is an Inspector over in Brighton, Milner suspects there is no love lost there. The Hasting’s Warner isn't even possessed of native cunning. His cousin though? He's smart. And nasty. If he was ever offered a transfer there to Brighton the thought of Inspector Warner would give him pause.

He takes another sip of the cup of tea he collected a good twenty minutes ago. They haven't really been good minutes and Paul has let his tea get to tepid without really appreciating it. He knows he's overthinking. Not just the dynamic with his boss. But the books too. What Jane will want, now ‘The Decision’, as he can't help but think of it is made. What he's doing. Whether he ought to transfer, and if not Brighton, where? Southampton is a bit far. And really he likes Sussex. And he's not sure he could bear to just leave. But if this matter with Foyle isn't resolved soon he's going to go slightly crazy. He might already have done so. He tries another mouthful of tea. Really he should go and get it topped up with boiling water. Then he wouldn't waste it.

He's saved from further indecision when the door opens, Foyle pushes in, bringing with him the scent of rain and what Paul now recognises as a combination of shaving soap, cologne, and something indefinably Christopher and no one else. Sam follows close behind. 

“Good. You're here. Sam, could you get us all some tea? Paul is that cup cold, are you drinking it out of duty?”

Paul tries to think of something smart to say and instead settles for,

“Thanks Sam, a new cup would be a good idea. I've let this one get a bit past its best.”

Foyle frowns at him. Really, Paul sighs to himself, most of what Mr Foyle has done this week is either be cross or frown at him. Or both. 

He squares his shoulders. It's a Thursday and usually they eat together on a Thursday, a simple meal often turning into a pleasurable evening of reading or talk or chequers or cards. Or something. Spent companionably and at least for Paul with an increasing level of what he can only describe to himself as something that hangs heavy in the air but which he has no idea how to articulate or act on. And he has no way of knowing if that's just him being over-sensitive, something he knows he has a predilection to, or if Foyle feels it too.

“So. Silvestri hasn't turned in his fellow conspirators but Sargeant Morgan at Wilmington has asked us to stop in. I can't tomorrow. I've got that damned committee.”

“I'm happy to go. With all the rain? It'd be a nice change?”

He looks again out of the window, it's still raining hard. They had a cold snap a few weeks ago and the snow had been both surprising and persistent. He looks back at Foyle. They'd been snowed in twice on two different farms. It had been even more challenging than being together in the office everyday. Forced to share not only a room but the various bedsteads and quilts and blankets the families had been able to find for three extras. 

Sam had seemed perfectly cheerful about bunking in with various land-girls, but he and Foyle had been left with a limited option. He'd both enjoyed it and found it faintly terrifying. Almost as though Foyle would know what he was thinking by a kind of osmosis diminished by ever narrowing physical distance. Especially when.. well, better not to think of that now.

Foyle looks at his Sargeant. Paul is still pre-occupied and clearly all is not quite as it usually is between them. Though that's his fault as much as anything. Foyle glances at the office door, no sign of Sam returning just yet,

“I don't often say it but I'm sorry about Sunday.”

Paul turns from the window with a look of surprise,

“Sunday? The evidence? I'm not in the least resentful of that Sir. Someone had to do it. I'm glad you trusted me to.”

“Sam has admonished me in no uncertain terms for punishing you for almost getting shot.”

Paul smiles slightly,

“I hadn't thought of it quite like that Sir.”

Foyle frowns again and chews meditatively on his lower lip,

“Didn't you? You've been very quiet all this week.”

It's not untrue so there's not much to say really. At least nothing Paul particularly wants to start in on. Not here. Not now.

“Yes? I'm sorry too then. Just a lot on my mind. Jane. Everything. She sent a note to say everything arrived.”

They're both silent then. Foyle trying hard not to read too much into this, Paul unable to explain that for him it means it's done, it's cleared the field, so to speak. If that matters. Foyle changes the subject back to the visit to the village.

“I'd rather you didn't go to Wilmington on your own. No, no, not because I doubt your capability. Just that Morgan has something on his mind and I'd value our collective take on it.”

Milner nods, that's not so surprising,

“Saturday then? Will Sam mind?”

“We can ask her when she comes back with the tea. So. Good. That's sorted. And this evening? Usual time?”

Paul's relaxes just a tiny amount,

“Thank you. I might have to borrow an umbrella later. It doesn't look like stopping anytime soon.”

Foyle walks to the window and looks out,

“Terrible isn't it. I’ve found a leak in Andrew’s bedroom. It must have worked its way through a slipped tile. I'm hoping I left a large enough basin under it this morning.”

Paul smiles a little, 

“Where's the drip? In the ceiling?”

“Right over the head of the bed. I won't suggest you sleep there again until I've had it fixed.”

“I promise not to drink so much of your whiskey that you need to suggest it.”

“Good job too. You'll drink me out of house and home at that rate.”

Paul flushes just very slightly, 

“I'll try and moderate my behaviour. Sir.”

Foyle actually laughs just as Sam comes back with their tea, she looks at both of them stood by the window,

“Oh good. Have you two made up then?”

They both look at her in some surprise, she laughs a little nervously,

“You’ve both looked very annoyed all this week. And Mr Milner you've been absurdly quiet. And Mr Foyle has made more typing mistakes than usual.”

She pauses, they both look surprised still and Mr Foyle slightly annoyed, perhaps with her, defensively she adds,

“It's true! You're like two cats who are usually friends then you have a bit of a spat and neither one of you is very good at..”

She stops,

“I've said too much haven't I? Sorry Sir. I have brought tea. And in my defence I even have three biscuits.”

Foyle rolls his eyes slightly and raises his eyebrows,

“Oh well then. If you've brought tea. I suppose we're expected to forgive you anything Sam?”

Milner mildly suggests,

“I think as there is a biscuit each then that's probably quite likely, Sir?”

Foyle looks at them both,

“Oh alright. But try and contain yourself Sam. Oh and can you drive on Saturday? I should say your forgiveness is not dependent on it.”

She nods happily and takes a slurp of tea. She glances at Sargeant Milner now drinking his fresh cup, his old one abandoned on his desk. He looks much more cheerful too. So she was right. They have made up. Good.

“Very happy to Sir. Where exactly are we going?”

“Have you ever seen the Long Man?”

She smiles. Wilmington it is then.


	6. One bed what do - late November 1940

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stranded. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two other works in the snowstorm challenge! It helps to read both of them (and jolly good they are too!), but this can be understood even if you don't.

November, so far, has been the wettest since records began. Paul will be glad to see the back of it. The recent ice and snow and near constant drizzle or worse has caused his leg to ache in ways he doesn't yet have words for. He tries to stretch it without drawing attention to either him or his near constant discomfort.

The last two times they'd been out in bad weather they'd been snowed in at two remote farms, coincidentally chasing after two deserters. This time though their day is differently depressing. Both because of the rain and because this is all still to do with the racketeering case. It seems that with Silvestri arrested all they've done is cut off the head of a hydra. 

What's happening in Wilmington isn't huge, but it's enough to cause resentment. There's been some vandalism and a break in and though the local grocer Eldon Stammetts has a few ideas by the look of it, he's keeping his mouth shut. It's that more than anything else that makes Foyle think there's more to this than a few extra tins slipped under the counter top.

The weather too is set against them, the engine has flooded. Sam wrenches open the driver's door and the men inside the car get as far away from the rain she can't help but bring in with her.

“It's just too wet Sir. I can't get the plugs dry enough. I'm awfully sorry. I could ask at the garage.”

“Alright. We’ll try the pub. They might have rooms. Come and find us there Sam, yes?”

She nods and pulls her mackintosh round her more tightly and then squares her cap on her forehead. The noise of the rain on the roof of the car is deafening.

“I think it might actually be getting worse. I feel rather like Mrs Noah. Off we go then.”

She pushes open the door and the saturated air is driven into the car. She pulls herself out and slams the door behind her. Through the slanting rain both Foyle and Sargeant Milner can see her heading away down the street. Foyle turns back in his seat to look at Paul,

"Well this is a change. Rain instead of snow. Not what I had in mind.”

Paul's shrugs slightly,

“What's the forecast? How bad is it likely to get?”

Foyle is about to reply when there's a tap on the window and with a disgruntled expression he winds it down.

“Sargeant Morgan? What are you doing out in this? For goodness sake man, don't hang around for our sake.”

“Mr Foyle Sir, I recognised the car. Are you stuck?”

“We might be. Miss Stewart's gone to the garage for help. We thought we might try the pub for rooms.”

Dafydd Morgan snorts,

“Him? He's got nothing. Nothing you'd want anyway. Come back with me. We can drop by the garage, or I'll send one of the girls. We've got three billeted on us.”

“Sure we won't overload the camel’s back then?”

“No, not us Sir. Used to a full house see? Got the wife's dad with us right now. To be honest I'd be glad of someone to dilute the old bugger. Beg pardon Sir. He's a trial.”

Foyle nods and glances over his shoulder at Paul who just raises his eyebrows in a kind of facial shrug. He looks back at the local Sargeant,

“Far, is it?”

“Ten minute walk.”

He glances at Sargeant Milner,

“Might be a bit of wading. The lane’s bad. You be alright with that Mr Milner?”

In theory he and Paul Milner are the same rank but the ‘detective’ in front of the ‘sargeant’ and the elevated heights of Hastings put Paul just a little ahead.

“Any way round it? No? We’ll have to try then.”

He carefully doesn't look at Foyle. The rain is playing hell with his prosthetic; the leather strapping, the plaster moulding, the wool and silk “stocking” that covers the stump, the metal buckles, even the wooden foot. God how it rubs. And not one bit is really up to the repeated soaking he's given it over the last few weeks. He feels a sharp pain sing across his nerves. Some of which he knows are no longer there. Doesn't stop the pain though or the way it takes his breath away. It fades to a tight ache, and if past experience is anything to go by it's likely to get worse.

And wading? Nothing for it though. Foyle looks at him thoughtfully.

“Sure you don't want to try the pub?”

Paul manages not too sound too gritted,

“At least this way we're sure of a welcome.”

There's truth in this as the publican is one of the suspects in what might be a whole racketeering ring that they interviewed earlier.

………………

On the edge of the village they come to the dip in the lane that Sargeant Morgan had warned them about. There's maybe a foot of water, and it's wider than he'd intimated. He's gone on ahead on his regulation bicycle, rain sheeting off his boiled wool cape. And has clearly tipped off Sam who’s waiting for them under a sheltering hawthorn. She's soaked through but is her usual cheerful self none the less.

“The garage chap says it is the plugs. He thinks they'll be alright tomorrow. The lane’s badly flooded further ahead but the turn off is before then, so it's just this bit. I'm not sure we can carry you Mr Milner.”

Paul smiles slightly at her attempt to make things possible.

“I have found you a decent stick though, the chap in the garage had quite a bad limp and very fortunately had several spares. He said we can bring it back tomorrow. It's quite stout.”

She brandishes it slightly and Paul reaches for it,

“Thank you. That's very welcome. Is it slippery ahead?”

She frowns,

“Maybe, just a little.”

Foyle turns and looks at him, rain sluicing from the brim of his hat,

“We’ll take it slowly. It's not like we can get much wetter.”

The three of them wade carefully through the ford. Twice Paul makes use of Foyle’s shoulder to keep his footing, and once it’s Sam who almost comes a cropper. On the other side all three stand under a spreading oak tree, planted at the edge of a field probably a few hundred years ago. Up ahead they can see Sargeant Morgan, on his bicycle still, labouring through the rain, coming back for them.

“I spoke to the wife. That's all alright. She'll do some rearranging. It's slippery where the cows cross the lane. Be careful like.”

They manage their way along the lane and turn off the road down a short track. The police house is more modern than Foyle had expected. Despite the rain Mrs Morgan is at the door, waiting for them.

Unlike her husband’s lisping north Walian, Mrs Morgans accent is a broad Valley’s Welsh and her father’s more so. She fusses at them, coats, hats, scarves and gloves. Sam is mildly surprised to have her legs clasped to see how wet she is. She's rushed off into the house for dry slacks and socks. The two men she leaves with her husband. He frowns at Sargeant Milner,

“My Foyle’ll be alright. We're of a height see. You're a bit tall though. Come in, come in. I'll ask Bethan.”

He bustles off and Milner and Foyle follow him into a large kitchen with a table and multiple chairs, a mix of upright and armchairs. They're left there with the old man.

“Dai will have said. I'm Bethan’s dad. You can call me Mr Rhys. You Dai’s boss then is it?”

“We’re from Hastings.”

The old man raises both eyebrows.

“Oh. About the selling and stuff? Hmm. You should sit.”

He looks pointedly at Paul, Foyles about to say something about the state of their clothes and the chairs when he sees the old man point to an upright and gesture Paul into it.

“Bad is it? Did you slip in the lane?”

Paul looks at him, a stoical expression on his face. It's not something he talks about to strangers.

“Just a twist. Wrenched it a bit.”

The old man makes a face,

“Nasty. Above or below?”

Foyle is surprised when Paul answers him simply,

“Below.”

“Worse then. Sit for goodness sake. It's only water. Better? Good. My brother lost his foot. Last war, down the mine. Reserved occupation and everything. Daft bugger, always was accident prone. What kind they got you on?”

Paul doesn't demur,

“Desoutter. It's very good. Just..”

Mr Rhys sniffs,

“Bad in the wet and cold I bet. Even without the slip.”

Paul shrugs very slightly,

“I've some pain killers.”

“Oh yes? Good ones?”

“Enough.”

The old man nods his head tightly. And Paul is surprised to feel eased rather than irritated by the old man's brusque enquiry.

Sargeant Morgan brings a long pair of overalls into the room as well as two shirts and a pair of his own trousers. He waves the overalls around a little,

“I'd forgotten we'd got these. Forestry lad left them. Think he did a runner probably. They're not pretty but they're clean and dry. And Mr Foyle, these will be loose around the waist, but alright apart from that I think. Come with, both.”

He raises his voice,

“Bethan? Where they to?”

She comes back into the kitchen and speaks first to her father,

“Da? Will the cwtch be alright for tonight? Then Mr Foyle and Mr Milner can have your room? Saves the stairs.”

The old man makes a face,

“Sleeps all the same wherever it's to. Be a good girl and let them get dry first.”

His daughter smiles at him, still a girl in his eyes despite her fifty plus years. She turns to Paul,

“Mr Milner? What can I get for you? Da told you about my uncle? I was a nurse too, before I married Dafydd. Royal Infirmary in Cardiff. Lots of amputees there. Not just the last war, mining accidents, the docks, see?”

She lilts the last word and Paul is surprised at the warmth he feels for her straightforward practicality and matter of factness.

“I think I'll be fine. Thank you. You're very kind. It's getting to be a habit, getting stranded? This is our third time just in the last few weeks.”

She laughs,

“And is your doctor glad you're out there sliding around and freezing yourself daft?”

“Probably not. But I haven't told him.”

“Of course you haven't. Well. Come through. I'm sorry, it'll be one bed what do, like. But I'm sure you've seen worse. You probably won't quite dry out overnight. And better not to put it on the range and force it see? Might upset the plasterwork. You using wool or cotton in the stocking?”

“Wool and silk.”

“There's fancy by you. Good. That's better. We can get that properly dry at least. My uncle swore by a bit of sheepskin. As a liner see, at the base?”

Paul nods,

“It was suggested. But I'm managing without.”

“Alright then. Come with and we'll get you out of those wet things. Mr Foyle? You too. You'll have to bunk in. Not too proud are you? Humble Sargeant and all? So Mr Milner, you want to leave your leg for now. See to it later?”

“I'm not much of a hopper.”

She smiles,

“You'll do. Da? Play nice with Miss Stewart. She's a good girl.”

Her father grumbles a little, and Paul and Christopher follow Mrs Morgan into a room beyond the kitchen, possibly originally intended as a parlour. There's a reasonably sized double. Both men look at it and almost laugh this time around. Habit indeed. But only almost.

Within half an hour they're in warm and blessedly dry clothes, Paul eventually accepting the unfussy help and suggestions of Mrs Morgan. Foyle listens carefully and when she leaves them for a few moments to answer a question from her husband he asks,

“Is this really alright? You're not..?”

Paul twitches a small smile,

“Hard to take offence when's she's so at ease about it. It felt…”

He stops, and Foyle wants to reach a hand to him, to encourage him further, instead Paul sighs,

“Nice for it just to be ordinary for a change.”

He sits on the edge of the bed and looks down as he carefully stretches his leg out. He winces and doesn't look up when he says,

“Christopher, for all of Mrs Morgan’s good intentions. I should probably warn you. Even with the painkillers? Later? It will almost certainly be bad.”

…………………

Through the course of the early evening the three land girls billeted on the Morgan's arrive for supper and an early bed. One of them, posted alone to a farm further out takes an instant shine to Sam and they chatter happily whilst Sam holds the yarn that Margot winds into neat balls. Foyle looks at the young woman.

“Verger you said? Like the butchers?”

She makes a face,

“Can't get away from it. My brother. Why? You investigating him for anything?”

Foyle looks at her mildly,

“I don't think so. Should I be?”

She huffs a small discontented noise,

“Probably. There's all kinds of carnage at our place.”

There's just enough bitterness in her tone for Foyle to take note of it, though the name is only known to him as one of many on a committee he has managed to avoid so far. 

Over what Foyle thinks of as supper and Dai Morgan calls tea they all sit with a degree of warmth fostered by the Sargeant’s good humour, his wife's resilience and her father's genial irascibility. Sam, as always, blunders and fluffs her way through.

Paul is quiet and Mr Rhys watches him off and on. Just as the plates and table are being cleared he leans over and taps Paul on the back of the wrist.

“You taken them yet? How long they take to work?”

“Forty minutes. I will soon. They're very strong.”

“Side effects is it?”

“Coordination mainly. Tiredness.”

“Best just before bed then. You holding out?”

“I'll manage.”

The old man snorts and Foyle wonders if Paul can be persuaded to take them rather sooner and if necessary go to bed and sleep.

Sam helps Margot wash up, and Marissa and Cassie, both cheerful London girls recruited into the Land Army, that Foyle thinks are terribly young sit at the table and take out knitting and darning. Cassie explains,

“My brother’s just been and volunteered. Silly bugger. He sent me a long list of things he wants. The cheeky bastard. Didn't send me the wool. Just his measurements. Bet he won't even wear them.”

Paul smiles at her,

“He might be very grateful for them. What are you actually knitting?”

She makes a face and holds up the length of knitting she's managed so far.

“It was going to be a scarf. But I'm bored of it already. I dunno. Wristlets maybe?”

Everyone sat round laughs at her easy dismissiveness of her failings.

It's offset by the news that Mr Rhys asks for at 9pm. Everyone converges once again round the table in the kitchen to listen. The old Bakelite radio hisses as it warms up. The news is mainly about the bombing raid on Southampton. Bristol and Birmingham have already been hit this week, but Southampton is on the south coast. A dockyards? The home of the ordnance survey? A key coastal town? And a sobering one, only 100 miles west of Hastings.

Afterwards they listen to some light programming until the warmth of the room and the people in it push them all to the edge of sleep. It's only a little after the next news bulletin at 10pm that Mrs Morgan stirs and starts to demand hot water bottles and bricks from around the house.

Foyle, who has so far been quite pleased with his level of restraint, glances at Paul to find him already looking at him, quietly Paul asks,

“Sir. Could you get me the pill bottle from the pocket of my coat? It's the inside left. Thank you.”

Foyle nods at him and pushes himself out of the chair, covering the beginning of a yawn with the back of his hand. He goes out into the hallway, someone, maybe Sargeant Morgan, has hung up all the coats on hangers, perhaps to help them dry, he supposes.

He feels inside Paul's coat and pulls out the pill bottle. In the other pocket he realises there's a book and extracts that, thinking that maybe Paul would be glad of something familiar to read. Once they're ensconced for the night. He reads the title of the small buckram bound book. It's one of the books confiscated from Sir Anthony Dimmond only a week ago. He lets it fall open at the marker and reads a few sentences and then closes the book and puts it back in the pocket of Paul's coat.

He stands in the hallway just thinking about the fact that Paul is reading, has borrowed from the evidence room, some reasonably explicit sex of the ‘love that dare not speak its name’ variety. Foyle takes a few steadying breaths. If this is where Paul’s thoughts are currently taking him.. if he is seriously considering.. he glances back towards the kitchen. It's just possible then that Paul is at least willing to.. he realises he's pulling at his lip. Research. That's what it looks like Paul is doing. And Foyle has to conclude that it's intentional. Though whether Paul meant for him to find the book is another matter. On balance he thinks probably not.

He thinks of the few sentences he read. It's impossible to tell whether the marker indicated just how far Paul has read or if it was intended to remind him where to come back to later to read again. Perhaps he means to return it to the evidence room? Or why would he have it with him?

He manages another pondering minute before remembering he is still holding the pill bottle which was requested at least five minutes ago. Frowning at his own dilatory behaviour he pushes open the door back into the kitchen and puts the bottle down on the table in front of Paul.

“Thank you Sir. Mrs Morgan is just making a hot drink, if you want one.”

Foyle nods and almost smiles before he swings round to speak to Mrs Morgan and her husband both standing by the sink.

Paul palms two of the pills and swallows them dry. The pain in his knee sending shooting spasms up into his hip and down into empty space distracts him. It's a few minutes before he thinks to wonder at Christopher's particularly unreadable expression that he thought he'd glimpsed. But it's hard to focus on it right now. He sits and breathes in and out steadily. Trying to keep his breathing even. If he can just manage this round of drinks, just let the pain-killers take effect, just get to the bedroom. Just. And this time, this time he will ask Foyle, goddamit, Christopher for help. 

He can almost, almost believe Foyle would want to help. And damn if it's as far away as you can get from the half formed vaguely erotic nebulous hopes he has let form, but, well, he is as he is and better to remind Christopher here and now that he is a casually disabled as Mr Rhys’s brother. And if the thought or reality is a repelling to him as it had been to Jane? Well. Better to find that out now too. Before. Before it's all. Paul pauses. There isn't an all for it to be before. And really? Here? In another policeman’s house he shouldn't even think it. But. BUT.

………………..

In Mr Rhys’s bedroom it is both as alike and as dissimilar to the prior stranding they've experienced as possible. Paul has barely sat on the edge of the bed before he turns to look at Foyle and asks,

“Christopher? You might remember I said before that I didn't want sympathy. I still don't. But I do need some help. Would you?”

The remembersnce of the Spence case is a small bitterness but it's also a clear reminder of how far they've come since then, together. Christopher drops his jacket and waistcoat over the back of a chair and the pulls up another to sit opposite Paul. Silently he leans closer and together they undo all the fastenings on the overalls. He helps Paul shove them off his shoulders and down his torso. Paul's coordination is off, from the pain, the drugs, from the tiredness that both can cause. Christopher helps undo the buttons of Paul's shirt, eventually pushing Paul's hands aside when he can no longer manage them at all.

With the borrowed shirt off Foyle can see the complicated strapping that holds the prosthetic in place. He'd caught a glimpse earlier but the vague thoughts he'd had of buckles and a few straps coalesce now into a complicated array of strapping and what look like pulleys. He runs a hand carefully over one of Paul's shoulders as he loosens one of the straps and then unclips it. He repeats the action for the other two straps. There's a lump in his throat as he does so and he swallows round it. 

Carefully they move Paul from side to side to slide the overalls down over Paul's hips. He rests his hands on Christopher's shoulders to keep himself balanced. For a moment or two he leans his head forwards and rests it on his own hand, against the line of Christopher's neck. Christopher briefly clasps him at the base of his skull, he clears his throat a little,

“Alright?”

“Uncomfortable.”

They ease further apart and Paul rests one hand loosely curled on his good leg and lets the other fall beside his other one. Christopher leans forward to undo all the buckles and straps around the upper part of Paul's thigh. The leather is swollen from the damp and Foyle can see where it's tightened and left an indentation on the stocking beneath. There's red bleeding into the white wool and silk,

“It's not blood. It's just the leather leaching. Scared me witless the first time.”

Christopher nods and bites his bottom lip. It's worse than he'd thought. Not the injury per se, he's seen other men injured in this way. It's just the condition of the prosthetic after its soaking and Paul's stoic acceptance. More than that, his courage in the face of everything that has come about as a result. He silently curses at Jane Milner. Though he knows that's only a partial truth and if anything he has at least been scrupulously honest with himself to date.

“Just undo all of them?”

“Yes. My fingers won't work at all now. Sorry. They'll be a bit stiff. We just have to try not to twist my knee further.”

It takes several minutes work on each strap to persuade the wet and stiffened leather through its buckle. Paul holds his breath some of the time. Against the anxiety of wrenching his knee further. Once the last strap is undone Christopher eases the upper sheath of the prosthetic apart.

“the next bit is both worse and easier. It's tempting to twist. Like you would to loosen something. We mustn't. It just has to pull. Slowly and steadily. It will be fine. Just. Don't twist.”

Almost immediately Christopher sees what he means. He holds the prosthetic with one hand and clasps under the back of Paul's knee with the other.

“Ready?”

“Yes. Slow and steady.”

The stocking sticks slightly and Paul is a shade whiter by the time his leg slides free. He grits his teeth. The plaster and the lining are both damp and Foyle dries it with one of the hand towels they've been given. He looks enquiringly at Paul,

“On the chair is fine. Not near the fireplace. It has to dry out at air temperature. Thank you.”

Wordlessly Christopher takes the prosthetic and rests it on the other chair in the room. He brings another towel back with him and sits again. Paul's watches as Christopher carefully rolls the damp wool and silk stocking down his thigh. His hands warm and steady. Paul closes his eyes. Christopher sets it aside and then carefully dries Paul's leg. Paul watches him then. There's no horror there, or pity. Just tenderness, and, something else. 

Christopher keeps his eyes lowered but he thinks something of what he's feeling has conveyed itself to Paul when he lightly rests a hand on his.

“Thank you. Can you help me shift up the bed a little?”

Foyle is stronger than Paul might have reckoned on and he's handled and manoeuvred against the pillows until he's comfortable. Or as comfortable as he can be. He closes his eyes and then listens to Christopher get ready for bed himself.

It's only a few minutes before the room darkens and he feels the bed dip sharply beside him.

He turns slightly towards Christopher and reaches out a hand to rest it on his shoulder. It's ambitious in the dark but it lands squarely. He doesn't say anything but he leaves his hand there. When Christopher lays his own hand over it Paul laces their fingers together and let's himself relax. Finally.

Lying there, their hands clasped, Christopher wonders if maybe they've passed some point of no return now. Some place from which there is no going back. Not something to pursue here in the intimacies of Sargeant Morgan’s parlour, but something, somewhere.

The wash of tender intimacy that had flooded through him is riven with a pulse of erotic arousal. Just from the way Paul had moved when touched, under his hands. It thrills him. If this.. if they.. if it.. he thinks back to the book in Paul's coat pocket. He takes a deep breath and let's it out. Squeezes Paul's fingers gently. He hears Paul sigh and settle a little further. Against him.


	7. Advent 1940 (one bed what do, the following day)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I offer this to lovely Niakantorka who is not a well thing. Much love my friend.
> 
> And if you've been commenting! Oh my! I am so touched and grateful and soppy.

In the morning Christopher opens his eyes and lets himself quietly enjoy the warmth of the shared bed. The covers are still up right around his shoulders and in the blackout dark it is a moment of timelessness and a still fixed point. Something from which to navigate. A compass rose.

At some unknown hour during the night one or both of them have migrated. Closer. Paul is no longer merely holding his hand but is pressed close against him and Christopher’s arms have come around his shoulders encircling him. He thinks there might have been some slow exchange of kisses. But that might be wishful thinking or a half dream. Though the gentle press and slide of their mouths seems very real. He reaches up and tentatively touches his mouth as though it might bear some imprint.

He smiles at his own fancifulness. And takes a slightly deeper breath. If he can manage it he'll extract himself and bring Paul tea. Mrs Morgan no doubt keeps things handy in the kitchen. And tea in bed must be something that is both harder to achieve and therefore more of a treat than Paul might easily afford himself. Especially now Jane has gone.

Christopher thinks of her for a moment. Of course the where's and why-fors of other’s relationships is nigh on impossible to fathom and sometimes both unkind and incautious to try for. But he feels sorry for her. That for whatever reason something broke and could not be mended between Paul and her. Whether it was their physical relationship, or some other gap in intimacy or simply the horror of Paul's debilitating injury? Whatever it was, he feels it as her loss. But then, that is because he can only think of it as his gain. And he knows that makes him a little selfish. And glad.

He carefully moves his arm from under Paul's neck and watches in the very near dark as Paul shifts and re-settles but does not wake. He feels the same tenderness and desire he'd let himself be covered in the night before. And if they had kissed? 

He feels around the room for where he'd lain his clothes the night before and draws on both his borrowed trousers and shirt. Without adjusting the curtains he opens the door to the landing and then closes it quietly behind him.

The click of the door isn't loud, but it's just enough to start to wake Paul. He opens his eyes and stretches. His leg aches dully, but nothing more than usual. Perhaps the thing that wakes him up most is that he's slept through. All the way. That's as unusual a thing as to make him smile. Maybe the medication really is that good. 

Beside him the bed is empty but still warm. Oh. He'd have quite liked to be the one to wake up first. To watch Christopher still asleep. He wonders if during the night they really had moved closer, if he had kissed him. He thinks he did. But it's hard to tell. Tied up in dreams and hopes and wondering. He thinks he simply lifted his face a little, brushed the corner of Christopher's mouth with his and then let the two of them slide together.

He thinks of the push he'd made against the knitted seam of Christopher's mouth and their gradual mutual unravelling. He thinks though he might have fallen asleep in the middle of it. He smiles, a little embarrassed. If it was a dream. Which seems quite possible, it was a good one. If it wasn't a dream? Then it's even better. 

The door pushes open, and there's a wash of light that comes in from the landing,

“You're awake? I've brought some tea.”

Paul smiles broadly,

“I'm not sure this day can get better.”

…………………………

Over breakfast there is general good humour and a gradual re-establishment of the normality of working lives and working days. Even though it is a Sunday Cassie and Marissa push off fast, just toast and a flask of tea to see them through. Margot hangs around to chat to Sam, but eventually she too packs her bag and cycles off. Taking with her Sam's address in Hastings, with assurances of a trip and tea in a week or so. 

Sergeant Morgan comes back from the village with news that the car seems to have dried out enough overnight to be liable to start, and that the flooding in the lane has gone down. Mr Rhys grumbles, still bundled up in the cwtch and endeavouring to boss his daughter, his son in law, or anyone within reach.

Eventually the three members of the Hastings team sort themselves out, gather their dry clothes to them, exchange thanks and good will and make their way back along the track and lane to the village. It seems much shorter than it had the day before. Although everything is dripping there are only puddles and water in the car and bicycle ruts; no wading or fording to be done today.

At the garage the owner is waiting for them reading a newspaper. 

“Ah, good, thank you then, the missus was hoping you'd be here before church. I'm the warden, like, and I like to get there a bit ahead of everyone else. The car seems alright. Just the damp.”

Sam grins,

“We brought your stick back too. Thanks awfully much. It was very useful.”

The man nods and takes it from Paul.

“Glad it was useful. Bad underfoot yesterday. You manage alright?”

“Between us. Yes, thank you.”

………………..

In the car they are mostly quiet until they clear the last hill before the run into Hastings. Sam starts off,

“Margot Verger is very funny. Though I must say her feet are like ice. I think she thought I was there as her human hot water bottle!”

Foyle turns in the front seat to look at her, raising his eyebrows a little,

“And did you say anything?”

“Oh no. I just kicked her.”

He smiles a little,

“Well, you're a very ungentle bedfellow.”

“I don't expect Sargeant Milner kicked you!”

“He didn't. But then my feet aren't freezing.”

Paul makes a small noise which might be a laugh but when Foyle glances back he's looking out of the window, with only a look of mild amusement on his face. Sam laughs,

“Even if they were he wouldn't say. Mr Milner is far too polite for that. Did you sleep alright Mr M?”

Paul looks back towards her,

“I did, thank you Sam. Probably better than for a long while. I don't recollect cold feet. Perhaps I was lucky.”

Foyle turns right round in his seat and gives Paul a look which is returned with just a small smile. Foyle swivels back and focuses on Sam again,

“Am I being ganged up on?”

“Us Sir? That's seems very unlikely.”

…………………………

They drop Paul at his house and he waits and waves them off. Back inside he drops his hat on a small table in the hall and hangs up his coat, mostly dry except for the very bottom of the hem. As he feels around the coat for wet patches he finds something hard in his pocket. Oh. Sir Anthony’s book. He pulls it out and heads straight for the kitchen.

Once there he draws water into the kettle and waits for it to boil. He gets out his tea caddy, teaspoons, a half pint of milk which must last until the morning and a large mug, fully intent on indulging himself in as large a cup of tea as he can manage.

Once the water is boiled he warms the pot and adds the tea, humming to himself as he does so. With the water poured in he lets it steep, adding milk into the cup and then returning the bottle to the cold shelf in the larder.

He waits a few minutes and then pours the tea, almost emptying the pot as he does so. He takes it slowly but he manages both the book and the tea and himself into his living room with no mis-step or mis-hap. It's a little cold but he's a blanket handy which he tucks around himself. Later he'll light the fire. For now he mostly wants the warmth and comfort of tea and sitting alone and reading.

He takes an experimental sip. A little too hot still. The book is thankfully dry. He lets the pages fall open at the marker. And pauses. Do most people always put their marker in the same way round and the same way up? He doesn't know. But he does. He has, ever since he was a child. And this is both upside down and back to front. Which means? That someone else has opened the book and moved the marker. He checks the page. That's still right. So. Someone opened the book, shifted the marker but put it back. 

He thinks back to the night before, Sargeant Morgan hung the coats but Christopher fetched his pills. Christopher fetched his pills. He stills. Tea to one side on a small table all but forgotten. The book loose in his hands. He glances back down at the page. He doesn't really need to. He knows what's there. But if Christopher read what he'd been reading? Might even be familiar with the title, or if not the book itself, possibly with the author? He closes his eyes briefly. Not what he'd meant to happen at all.

But he thinks back. To the considered touch. To the careful handling and manoeuvring. To the clasp of their hands in the dark. To the possible, maybe, dream-state kisses. Perhaps the book said things he's still struggling to find the words for? He thinks of not only the tenderness and careful intimacy that had underpinned every act between them the previous night and what he now can see was also a gentle, tentative passion.

God.

He reaches out to catch up his tea. It's almost cold. How long has he sat thinking about it, about them. He remembers Christopher's hands warm and calm and solid against him. So, what does he do now? God, how he'd felt. How they'd felt. The way he'd been held. He feels his cock stir. And swears quietly to himself.


	8. The first week of Advent 1940

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make sense of this chapter, which is the morning after Paul and Christopher's first fully acknowledged and deliberately chosen and explicitly sexual encounter you need to read Crowgirl's AU the Welcoming Silences parts 19-23. (All relatively short single chapters.) The link to the series is back at the beginning of the fic. 
> 
> Or, you could just read, knowing that finally, FINALLY, they did something with all that UST.

Foyle wakes to an awareness of steady breathing beside him, the mattress dipping under the unusual weight of two bodies and Paul still asleep and pressed lightly against him along their full lengths. He endeavours to remain still, simply opening his eyes and taking long slow breaths through his nose.

The room smells of a heady mix of warm bodies, sex, each of them as individuals and also, now, as one. He enjoys the fantasy of what it would be like to bottle it, and simply hopes Paul has a similar feeling when he awakes. He closes his eyes again, he breathes in and out, taking quiet detailed pleasure in the moment and luxuriating in the close, spilled, expressions and confessions of the night.

The room is still dark. The black out curtains and stuff he has in the windows is as effective during the day as in the night. He’d told Sam, and Paul for that matter, to take the day off and really he should let the station know that he’ll be in late. He glances at Paul, resists the urge to reach out and simply touch. Though he believes it would be welcome. Almost.

He considers thoughtfully, it’s Thursday now, yesterday could easily have been memorable for the worst of reasons, up at the Hanford’s farm, their last boy, dead, in some field in France. In the place of that memory he has instead the heating recollection of Paul’s hands in his hair, a sharp exhaled gasp as he’d come, Christopher’s mouth a warm wet tease and pull on him. He’d held Paul carefully after, as he’d shaken in his arms; something complicated and hurt and fearful at being desired, wanted. Some past hurts and pain, something that could be written over by an epistolary of passion and touch, scribed anew into his skin.

Foyle closes his eyes again and smiles at his poetics. Though he’s conscious that Paul could easily draw that particular sensibility from him. As Rosalind had done, with laughing, fond, and, flashing eyes. He smiles at the thought and opens his eyes again, this time to find Paul’s on him. Open in every way, crinkling a little at the corners. He leans just a little nearer and can't help a feeling of relief when Paul pulls him closer, a palm to his cheek, and kisses him. They move slightly apart and Christopher asks,

“Alright?”

Paul’s reply is to repeat the kiss, deepen it, and touch. As Foyle had thought to do earlier.

......................

It is some time later, some considerable time later, when he remembers about calling the station. As no one has called him either the villainy of Sussex has taken a welcome morning off or no one has thought to try him at home. Unusually, perhaps uniquely, he finds it difficult to let it bother him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is all about Christmas 1940 and I actually went to the Imperial War Museum in London to do some research!


	9. Advent 1940

“What do you think Sam? Will dad be pleased? I’ve Christmas and Boxing Day off. It’d be a good surprise.”

Sam smiles at Andrew Foyle. Really, he’s alright, if a little self-absorbed, but he can be good fun if he’s in the right mood.

“What have you got him for Christmas? Not socks?”

Andrew laughs,

“Funny. No, not socks. He’s an ace darner, there never seems to be any point with socks. Actually, I’ve managed to get him some of that cologne he wears. Expensive stuff. Penhaligons. I think maybe Mother got him started on it.”

Sam smiles,

“Oh yes? Sort of spicey and clovey and dark and mysterious?”

“What?”

Andrew laughs again,

“Really? Dark and mysterious? Dad?”

Sam shrugs her shoulders, perhaps feeling just a little defensive of her boss.

“Yes. I think so. Sometimes. He’s terribly good with secrets and confidences.”

Andrew eyes her slightly doubtfully, the look of adult offspring everywhere who have yet to fully realise their parents are fully autonomous beings independent of their children’s lives.

“If you say so. What’s he got to be mysterious about? Apart from work I suppose?”

Sam is about to pass some comment on the laughing glance she’d seen exchanged between Sargeant Milner and Mr Foyle just a few days ago and suddenly thinks better of it. For all that it had been utterly devoid of any bemusing context it had seemed like an oddly intimate moment upon which she had wondered if she was intruding. Even though she was driving at the time.

“Oh, just things. Sometimes he says rather less than you think might be going on. You know?”

Andrew surveys her again. He likes Sam, she is funny, and positive, and generous in lots of ways. Not as clever as some, not an intellectual. He wonders for a moment how his father feels about being driven around by this girl. Even if it would be impossible for his sergeant to undertake the role. Maybe he’ll ask? Something to talk about over Christmas. His thoughts are interrupted by Sam,

“Are you going to eat that last scone?”

“Halves?”  
...................


	10. Christmas 1940 Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas 1940, and Andrew Foyle decides to spend his unexpected leave at his father's home.

On the night of Christmas Eve Paul and Christopher walk slowly back to Christopher’s home after the midnight service. If either of them consider any possible contradiction that might unfavourably contrast their burgeoning relationship with the tenets of the Church of England then Foyle has some reasonably well thought through theology about the nature of a god that might penalise a human being simply for being human.

The rains of November have mostly dissipated and it is a cold and clear night. Neither of them mind it, though Paul has conceded and brought a walking stick with him. But, so far, slow and steady is working for them.

At Christopher’s front door he waits to see if Paul wants a helping hand up the short, steep steps and over the lintel. He manages without.

They’d talked a little on the way home, about the sermon, the music, one particular soloist, the usual readings, the breathy optimism that threaded through the prayers. The vicar had recalled the Christmas armistice of the Great War and Foyle had sighed at the memory.

This though? This is a very different kind of war, with an especially despicable ideology at its heart. Rosalind had had a Jewish maternal great-grandmother and he suspects she would have loathed and detested what is happening in the homeland of her admittedly distant forbears. Though Foyle knows there is plenty of anti-semitism to worry about more locally, even in Hastings. And anti-everything else ‘foreign’ or ‘different’ or ‘not like us’ too.

They are likely to have trouble at some point. He considers there’s a kind of inevitability to it. In the hallway, he watches as Paul unwinds his scarf and then makes a start on his coat buttons and belt.

“Would you like a drink? Before bed?”

Paul flashes him a quick look, which is all dark eyes, a serious expression and full of promise. Their mutual enjoyment and capacity for intimacy and arousal has perhaps surprised them both. And that with an agreed willingness to experiment carefully, to enquire and declare, to enjoy, are all a source of pleasure.

“I was thinking of wine rather than tea. Or both? If you’d like?”

Paul hangs his coat up properly and loops the scarf through the armhole, his hat he puts on the side table and smiles when Christopher drops his over the top of it. He holds out a hand for Christopher’s coat and then hangs it over his own. There’s something in that Christopher thinks. Paul smiles a little,

“Wine would be nice. Then bed. And then tea?”

“In that order?”

“I think so. Though I know tea will be dependent on your good will.”

Christopher reaches out and flicks the edge of Paul’s jacket lapel,

“Have to make sure you’ve earned the good will then wont you?”

They both smile, a line of closely threaded connection spun between them,

“I might manage.”

Christopher makes a small noise which is probably an attenuated laugh,

“You might. Kitchen?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer knowing that Paul will follow him. Once there he opens the wine he’d retrieved earlier from the cellar and then prepares a tea tray. For later. He smiles when he sees Paul smiling at the anticipation of his own success. Neither of them comment on it.

They drink two glasses and make slow conversation, eventually Paul asks about the small saucepan on the back of the stove,

“Is that..?”

Christopher nods and then pushes his chair back from the table and brings the pan over.

“It should be quite cool. Though I’ll strain it overnight.”

Paul nods, and then gestures at the contents,

“Can I?”

Christopher holds it slightly closer and Paul dips the very tips of his fingers in. Once coated he rubs them together and looks up at Christopher in surprise,

“It’s very slippery.”

He holds his fingers to his nose and scents them carefully,

“And quite a neutral smell. Just earthy.”

Christopher nods agreement.

“It tastes like a rather bland porridge.”

“You tried it?”

“Earlier. Whilst it was still warm.”

Paul keeps eye contact whilst he carefully licks first one and then the next two fingers he has coated with the boiled flax seed. He sucks them clean. Christopher doesn’t say anything but he feels an anticipatory tug deep at the base of his spine, some curl of awareness and arousal which he knows Paul has recognised when he crinkles his eyes in an amused look.

“It didn’t specify quantities in the book. How did you know?”

Over the last two nights they’ve spent together, four in all since that first astounding evening, Christopher has persuaded Paul to read aloud to him from Sir Anthony’s forbidden book. Although it’s somewhat hyperbolic style has occasionally made both of them smile, it has also led to some frank discussion, and subsequent trial and only occasional error.

“I read it somewhere else I think. A while ago now.”

He takes the pan back to the sink and then sets up a bowl and sieve on the draining board and pours the mixture in. As the seeds and grit are left behind what oozes through is a translucent slippery mass. He takes a deep breath and turns as Paul takes another mouthful of wine, smiling around it, perhaps a little serious too.

“Are you sure Christopher? I don’t meant to force this.”

He sees the expression on Christopher’s face,

“All right. Not that. But only if you want to as well?”

Christopher sits opposite him and fiddles slightly with the stem of his wine glass. It’s an unexpected indication of something that isn’t nervousness but may be akin to it. He reaches out and covers one of Paul’s hands with his own and strokes his palm with his thumb, circles at first and then longer strokes,

“I’m reasonably sure I want to see how it is for both of us.”

“You didn’t before?”

“Not exactly. Well. I did. My partner ducked out of it. I rather think he preferred I do all the work.”

“And what would you prefer now?”

There’s a pause whilst they both consider each other,

“I think.” Christopher finally says. “I would very much enjoy seeing how much I could make you let go of some of that poise.”

Paul laughs,

“Poise? Really? Me? All right then. I’d like you to try.”

He laughs again,

“Of course, I get to watch you watch. That will be something too.”

“Only if you can still pay attention by then.”

Christopher reaches out with his other hand runs a single finger along the curve of Paul’s jaw, he’s pleased with the slight shiver this evokes,

“Bed?”

Paul just nods.  
...........................................................

In the morning, as is usually the way, Christopher wakes first. He stretches and is amused when Paul takes the opportunity to burrow deeper under the blankets and eiderdown. The room is a little cool and Christopher surmises that the fire in the downstairs grate must have exhausted itself.

“I’ll make some tea.”

He’s greeted with what might be acknowledgement but which equally might be something driven by sleep or some muttered dreaming. When he pulls himself out of bed he contemplates both his pyjamas and dressing gown. Perhaps both as the kitchen will be colder still. He collects the tea tray from the night before, which provokes a warm smile, the smile broadens as he sees that Paul has taken the opportunity to leach some of the residual warmth from Christopher’s side of the bed. He runs warmer than Paul. Something that has pleased them both. And he is quietly amused when Paul pulls his pillow over his head. 

In the kitchen Christopher swaps out the cups for some clean ones and washes up while he waits for the kettle to boil. He hums a little to himself. Later they might have lunch, go for a walk, listen to the King’s Christmas Day speech, perhaps some music. Just simple easy things. And later? He checks the bowl on the drainer and then dumps the sludge into a basin where the tea leaves and other scraps end up. The bowl of flax seed he covers with a side plate and then sets on the cold shelf in the larder. Well. Later then, maybe some further exploration.

Back in the bedroom Paul wakes up enough to be grateful for the tea. 

“It’s such a luxury now. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And Happy Christmas.”

They both laugh and talk a little about the day ahead. Paul is just setting down his cup when he stills and puts a hand on Christopher’s wrist and frowns,

“Was that the front door?” 

He barely breathes it, and they listen together to the movement downstairs, the briefly whistled tune. The kitchen door makes it’s half amused creak. Christopher looks at Paul with slightly widened eyes.

“Good grief. I think it must be Andrew.”

“On leave? Didn’t he mention it?”

Christopher gives him a look which Paul acknowledges with a slight duck of his head,

“Not a word. I’ll think of something. I’ll go down. And, well, come up with a plan.”

“All right. I’ll keep quiet.”

“Will you be all right?”

Paul doesn’t smile. It is, after all, a rather serious situation, never-the-less there is just the tiniest part of him that wants to laugh. Possibly the smallest touch of hysteria, he nods though,

“Yes, of course, go on.”

Christopher smiles at him and gets up from the bed again, tips his feet into his slippers, makes a face at Paul and then closes the door behind him as he goes out.  
Paul tries very hard to stay still and stares at the ceiling before closing his eyes and trying to hear.

In the kitchen Andrew Foyle is just debating the wisdom of some porridge his dad has made. It smells ok if a bit dull but there’s probably no sugar. He puts it back in the larder and mooches around for something else to eat.

“Andrew! Hello. I wasn’t expecting you. Merry Christmas.”

“I know. Good isn’t it? We’ve got two days of proper leave, so I’ll even be able to stay. You got enough in to feed me?”

“Of course. There’s even some Christmas pudding.”

“Really? Brandy butter?”

“More like brandy margarine. But probably. My sergeant is coming round for lunch later.”

“Is he. I don’t think I’ve met him. Oh. Wait. Just in passing. At the station. You’re still in pyjamas. What’s this? Were you actually having a lie in?”

Christopher thinks of Paul,

“Something of that sort.”

“Well that’s good. I’m sure you deserve it. Did you go to church last night?”

Christopher nods, and can feel himself beginning to rally. And have the beginnings of a way forwards. Though it will take some careful manoeuvring.

“Any other plans Andrew? Just so I know?”

“Only to eat you out of house and home. And maybe pop round to see Clive later, after the King’s speech. Wouldn’t want to miss that, and his father won’t have the wireless on at Christmas.”  
..................................

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....................
> 
> Boiled and thoroughly strained flax seed? Lube before there was actual lube. Or if vegetable oil was unavailable or if petroleum jelly had been practically bought up by the military (for non sex-related reasons, even if it got used that way).
> 
> Experimental archaeology is a wonderful thing. You’re welcome. Keeps for about four days out of the fridge, or longer if kept in the fridge.


	11. Christmas 1940 Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And just when you want it to rain, the skies are clear. Of course.

Back upstairs Christopher pushes open his bedroom door and closes it behind him. With a smile and a low voice he whispers.

“Any bright ideas whilst I’ve been gone?”

Paul shrugs a little.

“Numerous. Sadly most of them irrelevant to the circumstances.”

“Funny. So. My current plan, if it seems feasible to you. I shall persuade Andrew out for a walk. About ninety minutes, if I can manage him and then we’ll be back here to prepare lunch. At which I’ve told Andrew you are expected. So. You have time to leave. And then come back again.”

Paul nods briefly. That sounds about possible. A little bit of a tight turnaround, but manageable. And certainly better than any alternatives that have still not presented themselves to him. He wonders if he might be just a little paralysed by the enormity of the situation. Christopher doesn’t exactly smile but he does make a small face.

“Later, I was thinking we could listen to the King’s Broadcast, and make sure to do nothing too exciting. Andrew will almost certainly visit his friend, in part because we shall have been rather dull.”

He fiddles momentarily with the cord on his dressing gown. It’s an uncharacteristically uncertain gesture, Paul smiles softly at it and reaches out a hand to touch the back of Christopher’s wrist.

“Go on.”

“Well. Yes. And later still we shall go to your house.”

“Oh yes? How’s that going to work?”

“The ceiling in the spare room?”

Paul frowns.

“It’s not been fixed yet? Christopher! That was two, no, three weeks ago?”

Christopher sighs at him and flips the cord a little.

“I know. We have been very busy.”

He chews a little on his bottom lip.

“I can make the room up in here and Andrew can have this bed. I can borrow your spare room.”

He glances round. Nothing seems especially off kilter. Just Paul’s clothes mixed in with his in an appropriate tangle of fabric. Dropped uncaring across the floor between the door and the bed. Revealing. In so many distinct ways. But easily remedied.

“It’s very brazen.”

Christopher twitches a smile back.

“I’m hoping that’s its charm. And now I should get on, there’s only so long I can hang about without Andrew getting ansty on his own. And I’d rather he didn’t come upstairs just yet awhile.”

“Where will you go?”

“That’s the bit I haven’t quite worked out.”

“And if it doesn’t rain?”

“Ahh. Yes. Well, we shall have to ford that crossing when we come to it. And hope for it.”

Paul smiles. He takes and holds onto Christopher’s hand a little tighter.

“I don’t mind Christopher. I understand the situation.”

Christopher snorts. And then coughs, as though to cover any accidental overhearing. Noise carries oddly in the house.

“You might do. I’ve been looking forwards to these few days.”

Paul gives him a look and pats his hand.

“You’re delighted he’s home.”

Christopher sighs. He can’t really disagree with that.

...........................

Andrew must have been persuaded, Paul supposes, when he hears the front door first open and then close. He listens carefully for any quick return, for a forgotten hat or scarf for any destination Christopher might have conjured in the last five minutes, but there’s nothing.

The stillness is such that for a moment Paul thinks he can hear the thud of blood pushing at the valves of his heart, as if his ears were stoppered to the outside world, only his internal workings claiming his senses.

He swings his legs out from under the covers and sits on the edge of the mattress reaching for his prosthetic from the chair beside the bed. He’s careful with it, makes sure to do everything right. Taking time to save time had been a favourite phrase of his grandmother’s, and though as a child he’d probably scoffed a little, under his breath, now at least he can see the point of it. Perhaps therein lies a certain kind of definition of adulthood, when the aphorisms and sayings heard as a child from the tired tripping lips of grownups finally make sense to you. Ring true.

He stands and collects the clothes Christopher had laid over the back of the chair as he had dressed and the makes a quiet step along the upstairs landing to the small bathroom. He washes, dresses and returns to the bedroom just to check he’s left nothing. A handkerchief leant and used might be explained, a tie? Not so much. He flips the covers back and smooths them over. Nods quietly to himself.

Downstairs in the larder just off the kitchen he finds a stoneware jar and decants half the flax seed from the bowl into it. With just a twitch of a smile. He closes the back door out of the kitchen behind him and locks it, slips the key into his coat pocket, wondering just for a moment how Christopher had managed to juggle both the hats and coats in the front hall without drawing Andrew’s attention to them. Paul glances at his watch. Fifty minutes. Time to get home, change his shirt, maybe his sock too. Not that Andrew would know any difference but he will and so will Christopher. And maybe it will give him enough time to tidy just a little, in case Christopher’s rushed plan can and does come together.

................................

Out along the sea front Andrew ducks his chin inside his flying jacket. God only knows why the old man had fancied a walk. Maybe to get rid of the cobwebs. He’s looking a little peaky. Though maybe he’s just worried about what Andrew’s told him. He snuffles a little.

“Think it might rain?”

“Hmm? Yes. Perhaps. We’ve had enough of it lately. Ahh. Yes. That reminds me. Might have to put you up in my room. If it rains. Tile loose on the roof. Above the back room.”

“Can’t we move the bed?”

Christopher pauses and looks out over the turning tide. A thin line of flotsam at the peak of the water marking its passage out.

“That might work. If not. I can ask Milner. He has a spare room.”

“I don’t mind shifting on the couch for a couple of nights.”

Christopher doesn’t turn and look at him.

“And of course I’d feel quite at peace about you spending your few nights of leave on that awful overstuffed thing, horsehair poking in your side, it’s not even long enough.”

Andrew shrugs.

“I’ve slept on worse. Really dad. It’s not a problem. I don’t want to put you out of your bed.”

His father makes a small noise.

“It’s not like I’d have to take the damn thing. Paul won’t mind.”

“It’s all moot anyhow. Not even raining yet.”

Christopher looks up at the lowering sky. For all it’s grey overcast, Andrew is right. It isn’t raining. In the slightest.

.............................

In the afternoon the three men listen to the King’s speech. His efforts to boost the morale of the nation is one they can all appreciate even if the quiet desperation comes across in his heartsick words. Not so the hope of twelve months ago when everyone anticipated it would all be over by Christmas. Now it seems clear that this will drag on and on. Though with the changes in ordnance Andrew at least will be spared the horrors of trench warfare. And Paul? Paul might have suffered, but he has survived. And that’s something. Isn’t it?

At the closing the three of them stand for the anthem, all with complicated thoughts coalescing around the drear of the tune. It’s meant to be a praise worthy song, popular as it is and was, but there’s a melancholy there too. As though echoing the King’s words of loss and separation. Not just evacuees, but refugees clamouring now at the ports in France and Belgium. Urgent claims against family and friends just over the Channel or beyond, to the Atlantic and safety.

Andrew leans to the wireless and switches it off. He drops into one if the chairs and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’m just going to ring Clive if that’s all right dad? He said something about being at a loose end this afternoon. It’d be good to see him, have a bit of a chat.”

“Back for supper?”

“I’ll cobble something together. Don’t wait for me.”

Christopher glances at Paul.

“You’ll stay and have something won’t you. If there’s nothing pressing.”

Paul nods.

“Let me help with the tray.”

The two of them disappear into the back of the house and Andrew leans forwards to poke at the small fire in the grate, get it going a little more. None of them had wanted to interrupt the programme earlier with the noise and scrape. But it’s only added to a small chill he feels. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned it to his father. Perhaps he’s over egging the cake. Though there is something going on. Everyone so friendly, but only so far, and he’s fairly sure he’s been warned off. 

Still a beer and a natter with Clive will take his mind off things. Even if his curmudgeon of a father sticks around. At least he’s fortunate that way. His dad may be something of a stickler but he’s fond and thoughtful. Andrew smiles. It would be good for his dad to get out, meet someone. Live a little. He’s not that old after all. Could do with a cuddle. He smirks to himself. That’s a little harder to imagine. His slightly stiff and stuffy father snuggled under an eiderdown with some lady friend. He can’t quite wrap his head round it, though it’d probably do the old fellow some good.

In the kitchen Paul bends his head a little and kisses Christopher gently on the mouth, one hand resting on Christopher’s shoulder the other holding a tea towel. 

“You’re thinking aren’t you? What is it? This?”

He waves a hand between that somehow indicates both the situation in the moment and the wider circumstances and circumscriptions of their lives. Christopher idly strokes the hand on his shoulder, an ear to any noise from the front room.

“No. Not this. Well. Not entirely this. Something Andrew said earlier.”

“Oh? Business? Ours?”

He drops his hand and takes a step back. Christopher shrugs and frowns a little.

“Hard to say at this point. Just a hunch on his part. But worthy keeping an ear out for. Something. One of their girls died. Might have been an accident. Might not.”

“Here? In Hastings?”

“Up in London. She’d got the day off. Gone to see someone in one of the ministries. Some kind of uncle, cousin. Something. Hit and run.”

Paul reaches out and strokes a finger down the side of Christopher’s face.

“Do you trust his instincts?”

“Some of them. Yes. Maybe. You’re distracting mine.”

Paul smiles. It lights up his face.

“Good.”

They step farther apart as they hear the front room door open. Paul picks up a cup from the drainer and dries it industriously. And then there’s Andrew’s voice in the hall way murmuring on the telephone. They hear the small ring of the bell when the receiver is dropped back into the cradle disconnecting the call.

“Dad? I’m going out to see Clive. I’ll be back a bit later.”

His father pushes open the kitchen door and props it open against the spring keeping it open with his foot.

“Back what time do you think? Ten?”

“Maybe close to eleven. Like that. Ok? You don’t mind do you?”

“Not at all Andrew. I’ll make sure the bed’s made up, put a warmer in.”

“Thanks dad.” He raises his voice a little, “Bye Milner. Happy Christmas. Don’t keep the old man up too late. He’s looking a little tired.” He drops back to a more usual volume. “See you later dad.”

Milner just smiles quietly and when Christopher turns to look back at him in the kitchen he just raises his eyebrows as if to protest his innocence of anything that might have been keeping the chief superintendent awake and alert late into the small hours.

Christopher might actually roll his eyes, just a little.

..............................

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I’m one of those writers who has no problem self promoting on social media. But I’m terrible at asking others to do so, or tagging people when I post, I feel too embarrassed about it. I’m told I’m an idiot about this. 
> 
> So. In the interests of being less of an idiot. If you’d be inclined to share, or reblog, or rec, I’d be delighted. 
> 
> I’ve been encouraged (ouch my arm hurts) to post this at the bottom of all my current WIPs. So, I’m trying.

**Author's Note:**

> Foyle's War is a British TV drama set predominantly in the 1940s in Hastings on the south coast of England. 
> 
> The series follows (the widowed) Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle, his Sargeant Paul Milner (badly injured at Trondheim in Norway and now permanently disabled after the loss of his lower left leg) and the cases they pursue, wartime being no respecter of either people or property in the most mundane and unexciting of ways.
> 
> Foyle is driven by Samantha Stewart a young woman on loan from the Mechanised Transport Corps. Foyle's airforce son Andrew plays a recurring role in the series, bringing with him sharp reminders of the dangers faced in the air as well as at home. The two have an ongoing off and on canon relationship. 
> 
> The crossover fic begins in earnest after the Russians, Italians, Japanese and Americans have all entered the war, in 1942. That story begins when USAF Lieutenant Will Graham is freshly arrived from Louisiana and is stationed at the nearby newly built US base. Foyle has already befriended the cultured Lithuanian refugee Hannibal Lecter and his French wife Bedelia Du Maurier. Though he rather suspects there's something more there than meets the eye. 
> 
> The story features characters from both series and draws on many of the possibilities offered by a wartime setting: crime, intrigue, spies, 5th columnists, racketeering, rationing, shortages, POWs, MPs, the Land Army, evacuees, post-blitz London, the radio, knitting, rural England, Wales, and Scotland, air-raids, as well as murder and other nefarious behaviour!
> 
> The Gathering Light includes chapters that relate closely to CrowGirl's AU, that draw on various Foyle's War challenges, and that keeps more or less within canon in terms of the cases they encounter. But, and it’s a big but, there are also crossover specific cases and a sodding great murder case to get to grips with.
> 
> It's worth noting that unlike Hannibal and other US series, British TV series often have far fewer episodes. There are six wartime Foyle's War series and each have two, three, or four episodes. I'm extrapolating like crazy!


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